


come at me from every angle

by Pomegranate Pains (garnetanemones)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 5+1 Things, Abusive Lucius Malfoy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Violence, Draco Malfoy Angst, Fluff and Angst, Good Draco Malfoy, Growing Up, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Lucius Malfoy's A+ Parenting, M/M, Narcissa Black Malfoy is a Good Parent, Sort Of, The Golden Trio, look she's trying, this is purely self indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24584677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garnetanemones/pseuds/Pomegranate%20Pains
Summary: 5 times Draco tried his hardest to make his parents proud and be the Malfoy he was taught to be and the 1 time he realized he didn't have to be.
Relationships: Brief Draco Malfoy/Original Male Character, Draco Malfoy & Narcissa Black Malfoy, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy, Luna Lovegood/Rolf Scamander
Comments: 5
Kudos: 260





	come at me from every angle

**Author's Note:**

> This is purely self-indulgent. If its trash, blame my friend because I sent it to her to tell me whether or not it was shit. She gave me the ok. But, uh, have fun! Buckle up? Please comment and vote. But mostly comment!

Despite what his father had tried to instill in him, Draco does _not_ think Lucius is the superior parent. Certainly, his father was the best father, but he only ever remembers his mother kissing his brow before bed. Only his mother let him cling to her when he felt as if the tall walls of the manor might swallow him whole. It was Narcissa that reassured him that no monsters could find them when they were safe and tucked away at home. 

He thinks of the mantra when he sees his mother. He repeats it to himself and gathers her quiet courage that lies dormant in his chest. And he calls on it when he most needs it. Mainly when Lucius turns to him with that ever disappointed stare and he knows he fails to measure up once more. 

_Malfoys are powerful_. He reminds himself, a sheet pulled over his head, and his body curled into a tight ball. _Malfoys are powerful_. He repeats when his father grows louder in his senseless shouting. He swallows back the sobs when something shatters. He’s not weak. He’s not. 

Yet, if he were stronger, if he weren’t so weak, he’d run to his mother’s side. He’d defend her. Not just lay beneath the sheets like a coward. But, as long as he’s a Malfoy, he’s not those things. Malfoys can’t be those things. 

He wonders if he was meant to be one at all. When the shouting dies down, he holds his breath for what feels like hours. Either they’ve gone to bed or something happened to Mother. 

He lies awake all night with worry until finally, at long last, he passes out from sheer exhaustion. Draco doesn’t mind her fussing the next morning about the bags beneath his eyes. It’s a relief that she’s able to fuss at him at all. 

After breakfast, before his studies, he’s unable to stop himself from running up to her and wrapping his thin arms around her waist. “I’m sorry, Mummy.” He says, the quiver in his voice far too telling for his liking. 

“Oh, darling,” She gently coos, kneeling to his height and taking his hands in hers. Hesitant to meet her gaze, he takes notes of her hands. Nimble, lengthy fingers with slender palms. The hands of a pianist, many have said. His match hers, just smaller, a little chubbier. “What could you possibly have done to be so upset?”

He pouts, ignoring the obvious wetness in his eyes. “I didn’t help last night.”

Something shatters within Narcissa. He sees it as clear as day and recognizes, fully, that this is his doing. He has broken his mother, the mother that has defied all on his behalf, the mother that has done nothing but love him as strongly as she can. She shutters before she pulls him against her chest. 

“My sweet dragon. You have _nothing_ to be sorry about. I am your mother. I protect _you_. Not the other way around,” She says so vehemently that it’s as if she thinks these words will sink into his bones. As if she can will him to believe her. “I should be the one apologizing. You should have never heard what you did, my darling boy. I am _so sorry._ ”

He hates the tears that fall. Father always says tears are weak. He says that boys aren’t supposed to cry. That if he continues to cry, he’ll give him something to cry about. He really isn’t a Malfoy. But he can be. He pulls away, wipes the pathetic tears off his cheeks, and fakes his biggest smile yet. “It’s ok, Mummy. Do you think we can play quidditch today?”

She sighs softly and Draco blinks back the burn in his eyes because what he’d said was all wrong. That much is clear by her tight-lipped smile. “Of course we can.”

* * *

The first time Lucious lays a hand on Draco, it’s after he comes home from playing with one of his father’s acquaintances son. Draco had been retelling his afternoon to his mother in big hand gestures and flushed cheeks. He hadn’t paid much attention to Lucious in the room and his father hadn’t paid much attention to him either. 

“Cara has this huge toy room just for him! Well, him and his brother and sister, but they’re still too young to really play with us. But his little sister just kept crying, wanting to play with us, and there wasn’t anything we could really play except house with her.” He relays, his mother nodding and smiling along. “It was fun but I still wish it had been at home like last time. We really wanted to play quidditch but Mister and Missus Burke didn’t let us. They said their backyard isn’t nearly so big!”

“It was nice of you to let her play with you two.” Narcissa comments, diligent hands threading a scarlet string through a canvas. 

“Yeah! House wasn’t too bad. Cara was the father, Nina was the baby, and I was the mummy. Nina would’ve been the mom but she’s too little and Cara said—”

“What,” Lucius interrupts, a stillness in him that instantly has the mother and son duo on high alert. “did Caractacus say?”

“He said that,” He wets his lips, stepping closer to his mother. “I’d make a good mummy.”

His father laughs in the same way he does before Narcissa is pleading with him to calm down. To not wake Draco. Narcissa clenches her eyes shut and she hopes, prays that her son knows what not to say right now. She tries not to look straight at the inevitable even as Lucius steps closer. 

“And what, pray tell, did you say in return?” He asks in faux casualness that has Draco beginning to shake. 

“If-, If I was a mummy, I’d be the… the best mummy.” He manages to say with a quivering bottom lip. “Only because I ha-!”

“Enough!” Before anyone can move or react, Draco’s head swings to the side, his right ear ringing with the sting against his cheek. “You are a Malfoy man! You are not some sissy _filth_! Am I understood?!”

“Yes sir.” He swallows thickly, head fuzzy despite the panic in his chest. 

“What else did you do with this boy?! What shame of yours do I have to hide before anyone else finds out what you did?!” He snarls so ferociously that his features get twisted and turned in Draco’s mind. He doesn’t look human anymore. 

He doesn’t look like his father anymore. 

Draco wishes he could turn to his mother but he can’t. His back is towards her now. He knows his father will only accept the truth and no lie will be believed. “We… He…”

“Spit it out already!” Lucius bellows, not helping the ringing in Draco’s ear. 

He flinches back and droops his head. His father is going to kill him. He knows this now. “He kissed me.”

Yet, no hit falls against his flesh. Lucius is far too quiet for his son’s liking. When Draco dares to look up, his father is straightening his appearance. “You will never be allowed to see this boy again, Draco. If you do, I expect you to act properly. Know your place as a Malfoy.”

He turns and heads to leave the drawing-room. As soon as he’s close to the door, Narcissa is pulling Draco against her, hands violently shaking. Lucius turns around and she immediately freezes. “Oh, and Draco?”

Draco freezes with his mother, flinching back at his own name. “Yes, Father?” 

“Any more of _this_ , your mother will not save you from my wrath. Am I understood?” Lucius pointedly asks, cane landing against the marble tile with a hard thunk. 

He flinches again but nods. “Yes, Father.”

Then he leaves with a swish of his coattails, his cane heard as he makes his way down the hall. Narcissa glares at the large double doors, tucking her son safely within her arms. It’s then that Draco holds onto her as tightly as he ever has. 

* * *

Bright blue eyes peer up at Draco and he feels his heart lurch in his chest. He wishes he were alone but instead, his mother had sent him to look at brooms with Goyle and Crabbe. It means two things. He can’t be just Draco right now. It also means that whatever happens here, his father will undeniably hear about it. 

“I didn’t know they let filth in, did you two?” He questions as haughtily as he can. 

The two at his sides laugh like he’d paid them to and truthfully, maybe he is. Maybe his father is, at least. He doesn’t trust either of them about as far as he can throw them. The both of them. 

“Draco?” Cara frowns with a hesitance that Draco has never seen before. 

He rolls his eyes, smirking at the baboons he now has to call friends. “Who knew garbage could speak.”

“Nice one!” One of the two hollers. Draco wants to say it was Crabbe but he can’t be sure. 

That’s when the other boy grabs at Draco, grasping at his cape. “What’s going on? Why are you being mean to me?”

He remembers the ringing in his ear and Draco uses that fear to shove. And he shoves hard. Cara falls back against the shelf and he slides to the floor, tears in his eyes. “Don’t touch me, muggle loving freak!”

“You prick!” Cara shouts back, gaining the attention of fellow customers and even the shopkeeper. “No better than your death eater father, are you?!”

Out of sheer loyalty, Draco surges forward, pulling Cara up by his shirt. “Don’t talk like you know my family. We know our place, Caractacus. And you better learn yours before it costs you.” With that, Draco drops him just as the shopkeeper approaches them. 

“No roughhousing inside, boys!” The elderly woman scolds, hands on her hips. 

“Of course. Won’t happen again, Madam.” Draco smiles brightly. Once she’s out of sight, he throws one last warning look to Cara. “Come on, Crabbe and Goyle. I don’t think I want anything that filth could have touched.”

He ignores the sniffles as he leaves out the front. They meet up with their mothers and he’s quieter than usual. When they return to the manor, Lucius is waiting for them. 

“Much better, Draco. Try not to be so simple-minded and resort to violence, though. It’s not befitting of a young man.” It’s the closest thing to a compliment that his father’s ever gotten to. 

It eases the sickness in the pit of his stomach that’s been there since he shoved his once friend. Draco clings to the acceptance, though. He washes out the guilt with it and pretends that’s all he feels. It’s the Malfoy way, he tells himself. 

He falls asleep feeling hollow within. 

* * *

The summer before sixth year is one that will haunt Draco till the day he dies. He had been proud, so very honored, that he had been allowed to know the truth. The Dark Lord had returned at long last and it would be them to bring him his victory. 

And then, that pride drained out of him the second he finally laid eyes on the only man his father would allow Malfoy’s to call _Master_. Now deemed a man, or at least close enough to being one, he was allowed to join and witness something so sacred as Voldemort himself and his Death Eaters. 

There was just one issue. He only met the Dark Lord because his father was incarcerated and had brought immeasurable amounts of shame to his family in the process. Being allowed within their ranks wasn’t an honor, it was a punishment. One that they had to endure as to prove their loyalty. 

So Draco endured. Straight backed, paler than the glistening tiles beneath his feet, and a black hole consuming him from the inside out. It left him wondering if death was more peaceful than this existence. He pondered it for hours until the screams from people he vaguely knew left him feeling that the answer was a resounding _no_. 

At least, no death he could have would be peaceful. Not even by his own hands. If the Dark Lord had bright himself back, he didn’t doubt he’d be resurrected if only to be punished. The mark that stained his forearm declared him as the Dark Lord’s property. He wasn’t allowed to die. Not yet. Not without permission from his _Master._

Instead of cowering beneath his blankets due to the shouting of his father, he hid now because of the endless screams. Of the pleas that echoed through the manor. And he shook like a leaf, terrified it was a face he knew down there. 

Before, he took refuge in the strength of his family name. He remembered his mother’s reminders of being safe at home since all the monsters were outside. His father had let every last monster inside and had stripped them of their strength. He got to escape the Dark Lord’s wrath by being held in Azkaban. Draco didn’t get such a luxury and neither did his mother. 

Never before had he felt so much resentment for one person, not even Potter. Despite this anger, despite this bubbling bitterness, it felt as if a heartstring has snapped, far too frayed to hold on. To hate his own father, the man he was supposed to idolize and love, had dislodged him once and for all from the foolish schoolboy dreams he once had. Any notions of being a Death Eater were lost with his childhood innocence and any respect for his father dissipated as soon as the screaming began. 

How could any of it be right when it came with such incomprehensible amounts of suffering? No matter which side of magic he stood with was it okay. And to think his father believed that not only was it alright but an honor to participate. It was pathetic to bow to any man, much less one so maddened and cruel as Voldemort. 

And yet, he still did. Bowed before the Dark Lord like a dedicated soldier, like a good little toy. His shaking hands hidden by his clenched fists, he made sure his weaknesses were concealed. A skill he had learned from his mother years and years ago, one that took time to craft with the way he wore his heart on his sleeve. 

Only a selected few were present, mostly the ones considered most valuable amongst the Death Eaters. It should feel more like an honor yet he felt as if it was a death sentence instead. As if he’d be allowed to die anytime soon. What an amusing thought. 

“One last thing before I dismiss you all,” said Voldemort, halting their departure not for the first time that meeting. “I have a task for young Malfoy.”

Had he not been prepared for this, had the Dark Lord not explained it all hours ago, he might have been surprised. Instead, all that was left was the near-constant state of dread that he had been in the moment he came home for the summer to no father, a bruised mother, and monsters stalking their halls. 

That cursed snake began to slither around him, it’s beady eyes as cold as their Master’s. It hissed something once the task was repeated to the inner circle and it must have been interesting enough to call forth the Dark Lord’s interest. 

That sick imitation for a human glided across the tiles, his dark robes reminding Draco more of Death than any King or God that he so clearly wanted to be. He stopped before his familiar, speaking in perfect parseltongue the way no other living witch or wizard has. And then he smiles great and wide, his skin pulling too tightly over his features that it gives a distinct feeling that his face isn’t meant to make those expressions. 

He reaches forward, untrimmed fingernails digging into Draco’s cheekbones. He hears his mother yelp and he hopes Severus can manage her for whatever this might be. He keeps his bow but is forced to angle his head higher, meeting irises that are painted red with the blood of his victims. 

“Young Malfoy, I hope you know the honor I place upon not only you but your family as well. Do not fail as your father did less you wish for there to be consequences.” He reiterated, his words still dragging with a slight hiss. 

Draco, at this point, knew his lines quite well. Severus had to help him after he’d been punished for saying the wrong thing but he was better now. He got there eventually. “Yes, my Lord. It is the highest of honors.” 

Despite it adhering to their unspoken script, it hadn’t pleased the Dark Lord, which was always a bad sign. And then he was leaning closer, setting every alarm in Draco’s mind and body alert. An inherit ‘ _this isn’t right_ ’ flooded through his system, colder than any water he’d ever felt. “Would you like to hear something quite fascinating, young Draco?”

A shiver crawled through his spine in response to both the call of his name and the question. He didn’t think he wanted to know what the Dark Lord found fascinating. He doubted it meant anything good. “My Lord?” He questioned instead, not daring to stray so far off the script. 

Nagini tightens around his feet and Draco is pulled forward until there’s thinned lips pressed against the shell of his ear. “Dear Nagini told me,” He pauses, the rumble of his chest echoing against the frail teen. 

Bloody hell, Draco could even feel his heartbeat this closely. He could hear it if he tried hard enough. The warmth that came off of the Dark Lord was entirely too human, as were the rest of it, and no monstrous thing should be able to hide their nature so well if they wanted to. They shouldn’t feel this human since human fragility was nowhere to be found within them. 

“She told me she can _smell_ your fear and hesitation. Tell me, what do you fear so strongly here?” He sounded amused, if anything. As if this were all some great game that he knew he was winning, watching the rest of them squirm in their failures with demented glee. 

Draco remained quiet. He swallowed back the words that twisted and turned on the bed of his tongue and convinced himself of the lie he so carefully lived. He couldn’t play dumb, that would only ruin the Dark Lord’s winnings and high spirits. Instead, he played the part he was born into. “The prospect of failing you is… overwhelming, my Lord.” He finally answers as steadily as he can, hoping his mask stays in please long enough for his words to be taken as truth. Just to sell it, he adds on, “Wasting my family’s second chance would be the last thing I would ever want to do, especially with how generous you have been, my Lord.”

It was all bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit drawn out from the actual truth. He did find the possibility of him failing this task to be overwhelming, that much wasn’t a lie. But only because he knew if he were to fail, his mother would suffer and endure even greater pain than she already has. And to be fair, he really didn’t want to waste their second chance. It meant they weren’t completely replaceable just yet and that would be their anchor to staying alive. 

He feared plenty when it came to this beast of a man. Anyone who didn’t was a fool. Or a Gryfindor, he found. Considering how many witches and wizards came from that house, he figured lines overlapped far too often between being brave and being stupid. 

Once, he would have highlighted that to be the reason Slytherins, and Malfoys as a whole, were better than any other. They held themselves above stupidity. Well, most did, when they didn’t carry the name Goyle or Crabbe. 

But here he kneeled before a man that would use any means necessary to gain even more power. A man that had ripped apart lives, families, and himself. He bowed to a man who worshipped control above all else. Draco would probably die while fighting his battles and he’d be replaced with a snap of his finger. 

Or, he’d fail. He would come up lacking as he always has and it would bring a shame like no other to his family. And his _Master_ would make true on all those threats. His father would be hung by his own entrails. As for his mother? His mother, so protective over him, so very brave to face the things she has for her family, she would be handed over to Fenrir to use and then to Bellatrix, her own damned sister, to then be hurt further. 

His life would end, knowing the atrocities he had brought upon his family. He would die screaming. Either screaming for mercy or for a quicker end was yet to be seen. 

The Dark Lord peered into his eyes but Draco was ready. He brought up those seamless shields that Severus had helped him craft and cast his worry into other concerns. When the Dark Lord finally pulled out of his mind, he seemed satisfied enough with the answer to not look further. For now. “You make your father proud.” Has it been from anyone else, it might have been a compliment or even praise sung in his name. Instead, Draco saw through it, heard the taunt for what it was. He was on thin ice and his uses were dwindling. 

“Thank you,” He said instead. _Thank you, for allowing me to live. Thank you for allowing my parents to live. Thank you for this hell, Master. Thank you for controlling someone as weak-minded as I. Thank you for the bruises, the shed blood, and the echoing screams._

“Make me proud, dear Draco.” Voldemort responded in kind. _Make me remember why I allow you to breathe. If you fail me, you will know nothing but agonizing pain. Remember who you answer to. Remember who’s mark you wear._

He’s let go and he falls back upon his hands, the dull thud loud enough to have his mother flinch. He meets her eyes, gives the smallest of nods, and she looks as if she can breathe once more. Severus releases her but gives him a thorough once over. Silently, Draco realizes he should meet with his godfather first chance he has for a brief check-in. 

He looks away after a moment, down to Nagini who slithers too close for comfort. He lowers himself into a bow, knowing he’s being watched, and then straightens himself. The Dark Lord seems pleased enough and turns his attention to Bellatrix. 

No proper Malfoy bows to another living being. That much is true. But the Malfoys have not been proper or honorable in centuries and with each passing day, Draco feels less and less like one. 

* * *

He is seventeen and there is blood on his hands. He is just a child but if that is so, the deaths he witnessed means he has seen other children die. He has seen Death, he has felt it’s clammy claws, and he wears its stain and always will. 

He is a boy and he tries not to gag when Pansy shoves her tongue down his throat like he’s a prize she’s so pridefully won. He feels her soft, delicate hands and imagines what it would be like if they were larger and rougher. And then stops himself because what a dangerous path that will lead him down. 

His father’s warnings from years and years ago still knock around in his head, the vitriol in them highlighted more each time he thinks about them. But he also thinks of how Lucius breaks every other Malfoy rule for a man who has broken his family entirely. 

Draco is nothing of what he _should_ be. He has failed his mother, his father, and soon he will fail his Lord. Because Dumbledore sees through him all too well and even if he hasn’t said a single word to him, his gazes speak far louder than any shout could. 

He runs and he hides from it all. He tucks himself away when he can and hates himself with his father’s voice in his head and his mother’s heart in his chest. How the mighty have fallen. 

A Malfoy reduced to nothing more than a schoolboy crying in the girl’s bathroom. His shoulders shudder as his chest aches, that hollowness consuming all of him once and for all. He is _hopeless._ This is all _hopeless._ Why even continue waking up to tomorrow when tomorrow's will just bring his punishment closer? Or is that in itself a punishment?

He can’t breathe. He’s drowning and even if his sobs are loud enough to hurt his ears, no one else can hear it. They don’t see him. No one sees him and he’s buried himself so deep in his own mind that it’s only now he even sees himself. What a great disappointment it is to be _nothing._

He doesn’t want this. He rips his top buttons, hopes it will let some of this awfulness seep out of his chest. But he still can’t breathe, not with the way the mark on his arm burns him so deeply. It leaves him wondering how nothingness can be shattered into a million little pieces that now glisten like tears. 

The mirror shows him just what he is. Hair a mess from anxious hands, his pale skin blotchy with tears, and his lips bitten raw. Where is his mighty crown now? Where has all that hollow pride gone? Wasn’t this all he wanted? Wasn’t this what he wished to be?

It’s then, of course, that perfect little golden boy Potter strolls right in like he owns all of Hogwarts. He whips away from the mirror, brittle and cold as he stands toe to toe with the chosen one. And like every cornered animal, he readies his wand, cautious of an attack. “What do you want, Potter?!”

The faint trace of concern is wrenched out of those unnervingly green eyes. A snarl twists his features and he can’t help but feel guilty for it. What follows is his fault, another failure to remember, and Potter makes his escape once Severus is there. 

He’s dying. He can feel it, can feel the blood soaking through his uniform. The Dark Lord had told him he’d die choking on his own blood but Draco never expected it to be at another’s hands. 

His godfather holds him, the tip of his wand glowing but everything he says comes out too slowly. Everything sounds so far away, even his own thoughts. He feels himself smile, feels blood trickle passed his lips, and for once in his life, he feels free. 

He remembers blue eyes from what feels like a lifetime ago. He never thought he’d find eyes even lovelier than those and yet he has. Vivid greens that speak of magic and love in a way he will never understand. It feels disrespectful to the precious memories he holds from his time with Cara yet he can’t help himself compare. 

Even the most beautiful of things can cause the most painful of heartaches. And while he might have died in vain, he at least didn’t die for Voldemort. The tears from earlier are called to action and he looks up to his godfather, simply seeing green. 

“What lovely eyes…” He chokes out because Severus must know how beautiful they are. He has to understand even if Draco himself doesn’t. 

For the first time, Draco witnesses his godfather fracture. He looks down at him, his spell casting put on pause, and his eyes are all too knowing. It causes relief to bloom within him. His godfather, somehow, really does understand the beauty of those eyes. 

* * *

He stood on a precipice, suspended in his own fears and anxieties. This… this was never meant to be how it ended. It was supposed to be their loss! This isn’t right! How could this have happened?

Draco wasn’t alone in his astonishment. Those still alive had filed out onto the courtyard and every one of them had staggered back at the revelation. Harry Potter, their Chosen One, his last hope, was _dead_. 

And the worst part? Draco was responsible for that, just as every Death Eater was. His hands felt heavy with all the spilled blood that painted them. 

Potter didn’t deserve to die. Not after all he’d done for them all. All the good. Oh, Merlin, he was so _good_ and Draco practically ripped that away from the world, hadn’t he? 

“I give you all one _last_ chance to join me now. Do not make the mistake as Potter once did or you will meet the same fate as him.” Voldemort announced, a smile stretched ear to ear. 

Everyone looked around but no one dared to move, least of all Draco. He stayed rooted where he stood, hoping he was hidden in the cluster of bloody students. He watched carefully, chest caving in further as Voldemort’s grin began to slip off his face. Every part of him screaming the absolute _wrongness_ in all of this. It clawed and screamed beneath his skin, an endless chorus of pleading and the urge to simply _run._

Unfortunately, his mother knew him far too well and she could spot him from miles away. She locked eyes with him and it was all the warning he had before she called to him. “Draco, sweetheart, come here.”

Her words, so inviting and so soothing, scraped against his already hollow insides. There was nothing left for her to take, not anymore. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t still feel it and it bring a sting to his eyes. With everything he could muster, he swallowed thickly and turned away. 

“Draco,” His father called in response to his silence. 

He glanced over to his parents, the two who he once thought were the most powerful people in the world. He thought his father was the greatest man alive and that his mother was the best mother there ever was. His father’s greatness has been cast away with his pride. His face has grown gaunt and sullen and not for the first time but perhaps the most important one, he realizes just how _broken_ his father has become. 

He has seen great men. Severus, being such a man, had taught him the lessons of humanity and humility that Lucius had overlooked. And his mother, while very dear to his heart, could have done more. She could have been more had she not been stuck under his father’s thumb, just as he had been. 

Bellatrix is dead now because she had dared to even try and hurt one of the Weasley’s. Yet, she paraded herself around in the Malfoy Manor despite the harm she inflicted upon them like a game of tic tac toe. 

His mother had been wrong, all those years ago. Monsters could find them in their home and it’s there they caused the most harm and left the worst scars. Draco was forever tainted by said monsters and he feared he’d turned into one himself. 

So he stood, he stayed, and he remained resilient in that. If he was a monster, he refused to continue to be one. It went against everything he knew as a Malfoy but if that were the case, he figured the rules needed to be changed or broken. Because this _is not right._ How are Malfoy’s better than the rest when they have sunk so very low?

Their pleas eventually fall silent and Voldemort levels him with a look that has Draco wanting to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness. Yet, miraculously, those clustered around him step forward. And it’s little Longbottom who takes another step, braver than they’ve ever witnessed, and for once seeming to fit into his own skin. 

In the end, Draco doesn’t regret his choice. The bloody Gryffindors save the day, just as they always seem to do, but he doesn't mind it this time. Potter is alive, too daft to even die, and doesn’t that just sum up him and his luck perfectly? 

Lucius is escorted away in chains and it’s Potter that stops them from taking him and his mother. Always playing the hero, even after impossible features. ‘ _We get it, Potter. You’re practically Merlin_. _’_ He wants to taunt, only just holding his tongue in lieu of recent events. 

Secretly, he admits to himself how thankful he is that his hope managed to stay alive, and that those fervent greens aren’t gone forever. Objectively, of course. Everyone has eyes and everyone agrees that there is such a thing as art. Potter just happens to be, well, art. 

* * *

Gryffindors aren’t _terrible._ It’s a realization he’s been forced to come to with the past few years and it’s one he’s hesitant to admit even now. In fact, he even enjoys the company of a few. Mainly the sensible ones such as Neville, Ginny, and Hermione. 

The twins, he still avoids at all costs. How they got into the lion house, he will never know. They are evil and shady down to their bones and so clearly belong to his house. If they didn’t focus so much on making others happy and laugh, they’d be deadly and not just dangerous. 

Draco carries many butter-beers to the table, careful not to spill a single drop. He sets them around the table before taking his own seat, waving off the people singing him mock praises for something so simple. 

Luna practically falls into her lap when she joins their corner, her smile as wide and infectious as it was when they were kids. “Oh, Draco! You’ve cleared up those nargles! Did you throw away all the left socks as I suggested?”

He steadies her enough so she can take the seat next to him and not his lap. “What? Oh, yeah. Really did the trick, Luna.” He placates, no longer arguing about what nargles are or what their behavior patterns seem to be. That was an argument lost many times. 

Ginny, hearing the Ravenclaw’s voice, immediately ditches her prior conversation and joins them at the other end of the table. “Luna! It’s so good to see you! How are you?”

“We’re doing quite well.” She answers, beaming so brightly that it gains most of the tables’ attention. 

“We?!” Ginny gasps, all theatrics as she covers her mouth. “You and that Scamander haven’t even been married a year! What a dog!” She hollers, laughing so openly with no care in the world. 

Draco eyes the slip of a girl, tries to see if he can spot a bump, and sure enough, he can. It’s subtle and he might have overlooked it if he wasn’t just told. “Congratulations, Luna.”

“I believe congratulations are in order as well, Draco.” She offers right back, wrapping his hand with her’s. She pulls it closer to her face, inspecting the new ring. 

It’s nothing fancy, despite how much Narcissa tried to change that. A simple onyx band with little encrusted emeralds. Very on-brand, as he always tried to be. Still, he offers her a small smile. “Thank you, Luna.”

“Surprisingly modest now, ain’t he?” Ron jokes, voice almost as loud as his father’s now. 

“Just matured. Shame not all of us have that in common now.” He quips right back, his smile lost to no one. 

“What’s this I hear about maturity?” Their guest of honor grins, late to his own party. No surprise there, of course. Potter always got lost in that thick skull of his. 

Draco rolls his eyes, already knowing where the man’s train of thought is headed. “Oh don’t you start, Potter.” 

“Funnily enough, I believe I said those exact words before you and Zabini started fighting over color swatches of all things.” Harry continues, much to Draco’s chagrin. 

Ron erupts in peals of laughter, face flushed with what Draco can only assume is one too many butter-beers. Birthday boy _had_ taken his sweet time getting here. “Haha! What, did Zabini not agree that Slytherin green went with everything or somethin? Or, oh no, did he think emerald was the same shade of green as it?!”

“You argued with a toddler for two hours last night, Ronald. So you best leave Malfoy alone.” Hermione interjected, proving once again that she’s his favorite of the cursed trio. 

He clams up real fast at that, his flushed cheeks growing redder than his hair. “Not Malfoy anymore,” Ron grumbles in defeat. 

And that’s true enough. The ring signifies that. All his legal documents give proof to it. The ceremony a little over three months ago even solidified it. He’s not a Malfoy anymore, possibly never even was one. 

He’s a Potter now. And Potter’s, he finds, don’t have nearly as many rules. Just the one, really, to be a senseless hero. He’ll be leaving that task for his idiot husband, thank you very much. He’s much happier teaching potions than teaching defense against the dark arts. Fewer accidents, surprisingly enough. 

Harry sidles up beside him in a chair meant for just one person and Draco’s had enough practice to not instinctively push him away. “You have to admit, Draco Potter isn’t half bad, is it?”

“Well, you couldn’t be Harry Malfoy. That sounds worse than your actual name.” He snorts, downing the rest of his butter-beer.

But it really isn’t half bad. Not one bit. He welcomes this family with open arms and is surprised they do the same with him. It’s a large, confusing family. And it’s far from a perfect one. But he feels safe, for the first time since he was an ignorant little brat. He owes them his loyalty for that alone. 

He glances over to the man with such beautiful eyes and marvels at the ring he also wears. And he knows, this time, when he tells any future children that they’re safe from monsters at home, he’ll truly mean it. 

When Harry catches his eyes, his expression softens, and the same meaning is reflected in his eyes. They’ve both endured and suffered but this next generation will not. They’ve made sure of that. Together. 

**Author's Note:**

> There it is! I've had this plot bunny for literal months and only recently started writing this. I might have written the last half sitting on top of a sink but that's neither here nor there. Please comment and vote and all that cool shit. I kind of want to expand in this universe a little more and fuck up the future but who knows. 
> 
> Fun fact: Two songs inspired this. Boys in the Street by A Great Big World, with lyrics as the title to this. And The Village by Wrabel. The Village, I know, deals with serious themes completely unrelated but something about it struck me with inspiration, man. Idk.


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